


In your arms.

by slytherdor



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Richenbach, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:17:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherdor/pseuds/slytherdor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock cannot complete this alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In your arms.

John Watson is a resilient man. He had to be. With parents and a sister like his, it basically built up a wall. A wall, behind which is stored Afghanistan, his teenage years living in the 'family home', and Sherlock. 

Sherlock Holmes is resilient man.He had to be. With parents and a brother like his, it basically built up a wall. A wall, behind which is stored his drug years, his school years and John Watson.

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It's been two years and three months since Sherlock. John doesn't think about what happened in the time they spent together, that's behind his wall. That time period just has a label in his mind that says 'Sherlock'.  
John has a job at Bart's as an ER doctor. He's seen his share of injuries, but in the hospital, he has not had one person die under his hands. He's something of a legend around London.  
John has stayed at 221B Baker street. Nothing has moved except his belongings. All of the experiments are still in their cupboard. The violin still has pride of place on the sofa and Sherlock's chair still faces John's in front of the fire.  
Not much has changed for John Watson, except that he feels completely empty and alone on the inside.

It's been two years, three months, two days and fourteen hours since John. Sherlock doesn't think about what happened in the time they spent together, that's behind his wall. That time period just has a room in his mind palace that says 'John'.  
Sherlock has a job hunting down each and every strand of Moriarty's web that's been left behind. He's had his share of injuries, but hasn't been to the hospital. He has not had less than twelve people die under his hands. He's something of a legend around London.  
Sherlock has stayed in 42 abandoned warehouses, 63 condemned buildings, 104 hotels and 12 times, he has slept on the roof of 221B Baker street. Sherlock has no more than 15 belongings. No experiments. No violin and no chair still facing John's in front of the fire.  
Everything has changed for Sherlock Holmes, including the fact that he feels completely empty and alone on the inside.

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Sherlock whips around the corner, his coat catching the wind and flaring out dramatically behind him. It is not his coat, it is a poorly made coat. He left his coat for John. He rounds the second corner and stops, breathing hard. Sherlock has been chasing Moran for the past two hours non-stop over London, but now, Moran has disappeared.  
'Damn it!' Sherlock breathes. He knows now that he's going to have to contact John, he cannot finish this by himself. It's been three years, two days and... Sherlock pulls out his phone. Thirteen hours, since he jumped.

John whips around the corner, his coat catching the draft and flaring out dramatically behind him. It is not his coat, it is a sterile, white, doctor's coat. He left his coat at home. He rounds the second corner and stops, thinking hard hard. John has been treating patients for the past two hours non-stop from a car crash over the other side of London, but now, the patients have disappeared into recovery.  
'Thank god.' John breathes. He knows now that he can contact the other doctor, who can finish this by himself. It was the third year, two days ago, since Sherlock. John pulls out his phone and sees that it is 5:00pm.

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John stops outside his flat and removes his headphones before putting his hands on his knees and gasping for breath. He checks his watch; 7:00pm. John smiles and unlocks the door. He's halfway up the stairs to 221B when he hears the soft violin music.  
'Oh for-' John had thought that these stupid hallucinations had stopped. He continues up the stars and unlocks the flat, walking to his room and completely ignoring the figure dressed in a cheap coat, screwing with Sherlock's violin. Stupid, stupid hallucinations.

Sherlock sees John stop and catch his breath outside the flat and smiles before beginning John's favourite concerto on his violin. Good god it felt good to play again. He hears John pause on the 10th step, the one that only creaks on hot days, and continue up to the door. He hears John unlock the door and... Go... Up the stairs... Into his room...  
Sherlock had gone through a multitude of things that could happen; John would get angry and punch him or John would start crying and hug him or John would maybe faint. John ignoring him completely was not even an option.  
Sherlock dialled Mycroft.  
'Sherlock.'  
'Why did John dismiss my presence entirely?'  
'You read his therapist's notes.'  
'Yes, but - Oh!'  
'There you go.'  
Sherlock had read John's therapist's notes. John had said that occasionally he had hallucinations. John wouldn't specify their nature. If John thought he was a hallucination, he would do everything he could to avoid talking to him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

John heard the violin music stop after he shut his bedroom door. It had been a full year now since he'd seen Sherlock last. Stupid, bloody wall. Why couldn't it just... Not crumble?  
John was changed out of his runners when he heard the knock on his bedroom door.  
'No. You aren't there. You can't come in.' John's voice wavered on the last word. He began to tear up. He sat on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands. He began to sob quietly. The door creaked open.

Sherlock put his violin back on the sofa and walked quietly up to John's room. He knocked softly on the door.  
'No. You aren't there. You can't come in.' Sherlock heard everything John's words didn't say. He was not unused to seeing his old flatmate. He was lonely. His voice cracked on the last word. Sherlock heard the bed creak and then, through the door, he heard John's muffled sobbing. Sherlock had no idea what to do. He stood awkwardly with his hand on the doorknob for a few seconds before very gently pushing the door open.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John's imagination was being a git today, John decided as he continued to sob into his palms. Repeatedly he told himself that there was no one else in the flat. No one had knocked on his door. No one had pushed it open. No one had taken slow, timid steps over to the bed and no one had crouched down in front of him.  
John squeezed his eyes shut and took one hand away from his face to reach for a tissue next to his bed. When his arm came back to his body, John froze. The back of his hand had brushed against something very, convincingly real. John squeezed his eyes shut tighter.  
Taking his other hand away from his face, John reached out slowly. His hands came to rest on a pair of frighteningly slim shoulders clad in cheap but thick fabric.  
They ventured closer together and found the material had ended, and that skin began. Soft skin, arching up. Collarbones jutted out ridiculously far.

As John's hands ventured from his shoulders, Sherlock shut his eyes and concentrated on memorizing the feel of John's hands. They lingered on his collarbones before following his neck upward, brushing thumbs over his jawline and finally, coming to rest on the sides of his head, tangled in the unruly curls.

John and Sherlock opened their eyes at the same time. John's fingers were tangled in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock was crouched between John's knees. They were just inches apart.

'You're...' John stopped to clear his throat. His eyes were red and his nose was running. 'You're here.'  
Sherlock just nodded.  
John used his grip on Sherlock to cautiously pull forward and rest his forehead against the other man's. He felt the tickle of black, curly strands brushing against his eyelids. He felt the warm breath mingling with his own in the few centimeters of space between their lips. He felt the tip of Sherlock's nose just barely meeting with his own.  
'You're here.' John said.

Sherlock was cataloging every sensation. He had never wanted to remember anything so much in his life. This was John. Three years, two days, fifteen hours and twelve minutes. He never wanted to leave John's side again.

The two men stayed that way for hours. Just touching. Phones and doorbells rang, doors were knocked on, cars passed, street lamps came on. Both Sherlock and John were oblivious to everything but each other. Eventually, Sherlock pressed his nose slightly closer to John's. John tilted his head just so and slowly, so slowly, Sherlock bought his lips close enough to press against the smaller man's set.

John was the first to move back. He opened his eyes slowly, noting that Sherlock hadn't. He took in the other man's pale, nearly translucent, skin that stretched ridiculously over jutting bones. John was appalled. Sherlock looked like he could be snapped like a twig. Before John could say anything, Sherlock opened his eyes. John stopped. Those pale, green-blue eyes were the same as ever. Sharp, alert, and breathtakingly beautiful. They looked at each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Neither of them wanted it to end. 

After an indeterminable amount of time, John's caretaker instinct insisted that the man in front of him was not in good health.

'Sherlock...' John had to clear his throat. 'You need to eat.'  
Sherlock was concentrating on committing the timbre of John's voice to memory again, and hardly even heard himself reply with, 'Probably.'

John stood up, taking Sherlock's hands in his own. He had no intention of letting them go. He led the malnourished man into the kitchen where Sherlock perched on a chair and watched him make toast with Sherlock's favourite apricot jam, and tea with one quarter milk and three sugars. Just so.

They sat across from one another and stared. They just stared. Sherlock's phone rang again, and again went unanswered. Once the dishes were empty, Sherlock started to speak.  
'John. John, I...' Sherlock faltered. He had no idea how to apologize for what he'd done. He had to try. 'John. I jumped because if I hadn't, you, among others, would have died.' The words began to tumble out suddenly. 'Moriarty was the only one who could call off the snipers unless I jumped and he killed himself so I had to jump, I've been tracking down the rest of his web, counting the days since I could see you again and I am... I am so, so sorry, John.'

Sherlock had shut his eyes half way through his speech and failed to notice that John had risen from the chair and bent over him until he felt a pair of solid, warm and so uniquely John arms wrap themselves around his shoulders. Sherlock stood, wrapped his arms around John's waist and buried his face in John's neck.

'Is everything finished?'  
'I... No.'  
'What do you need?'

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Four hours later, John found himself with a gun pointed at the window of 221B Baker street from across the road. He was waiting silently for Sherlock's signal. Moran was sure to have followed him here and was bound to make a move.  
John heard a minute creak from the door to the empty apartment he was stationed in. He knew the creak because it sounded when he had entered as well. John tip-toed back from the window and crouched in the corner behind the door, concealing himself win the shadows. Into the room, crept a tall, muscular man. He got to work very quickly, setting up a sniper rifle on a tripod pointing at the window of 221B. John deduced that this was their man. Sebastian Moran, the last remaining strand of Moriarty's web.

John stood, agonizingly slowly, and raised his gun.  
'Freeze.'

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock Holmes was alive again. Cleared of all charges put against him, tombstone taken away and back where he should be, with John. It had been three days and Sherlock had finally finished talking to everyone he needed to. Lestrade and the chief of police to sort all of that out. Mrs Hudson. Mycroft. Now there were no visitors, just a quiet flat and John Watson. They had taken to sleeping next to each other. Not naked, but curled around each other in the midst of tangled sheets and limbs. Quiet, tender kisses were exchanged whenever possible.


End file.
